


Liberation

by belovedbey



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-07 00:24:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17355455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belovedbey/pseuds/belovedbey
Summary: Newt helps Percival begin his road to recovery after being rescued from Grindelwald's imprisonment.





	Liberation

“He’s been… unresponsive,” Tina informed him, slowly eating her way through a stack of fluffy pancakes Queenie prepared for breakfast. “He’s conscious, but won’t talk to anyone; not even look.” She was talking about Director Graves. Upon learning that Grindelwald disguised himself as the Auror, a frazzled President Picquery immediately ordered for a search party for the missing man, organising Aurors to search a multitude of areas, one of which included Graves’ apartment. Newt, surprisingly allowed to join the efforts, tagged along with Tina to the apartment a few blocks away from the Woolworth Building and searched every square inch of the space. He thought they came up short after the both of them found no traces of anything, but as he came to observe the living room from in front of a large mahogany bookshelf, he felt the telltale prickle of magic on the nape of his neck.

“Tina!” He yelled, drawing her from her second inspection of the kitchen to the living room where Newt stood, studying the shelves that were littered with magical items the Director came to collect through the years. “What?” She asked, coming to stand beside him and trying to see what he was seeing.

“Do you feel it?” He asked, running his long fingers over the top of one of the shelves, drawing it back dust-covered.

“Feel what?” Genuinely confused, she gave the bookshelf a once-over before watching as Newt began sifting through the books stored on it, reading the titles to himself as he skimmed over the spines. 

“The magic…” he said, leaving the poor explanation at that. Before she could question him further, he found what he was looking for. “Aha, look here.” He was pointing at a blue, leather book on which the spine was written in silver lettering Magical Concealment Charms and Other Ways to Hide Your Belongings. “How inconspicuous,” Newt muttered to himself before plucking the book from the shelf, causing a loud grinding noise to come from the floor as the bookshelf began to sink beneath the floorboards.

“Maybe you should join the team, Newt.” Her words were half serious, but he only answered with a small smile. He’d never want to do that. Beyond the magical bookshelf lay a stone stairwell directed downward into a darkness that looked to swallow everything in its wake. “Go on,” she urged, unable to contain her anticipation at having a break in their arduous search. Withdrawing his wand, he wordlessly lit the tip and began his way down, careful in his footing so as not to tumble down the steep descent while Tina stayed close behind him with her own wand alight. They walked on for what felt like kilometres, making it obvious that this was work of powerful magic due to Graves’ apartment being located at the top of the apartment building (they would’ve passed through the apartments below if the stairs were corporeal).

When they finally hit level floor, the narrow walls opened up into a room composed of the same stone, and in the corner--he had to squint his eyes to see properly--sat a completely naked Percival Graves, hunched over on himself with limbs tied together and mouth gagged. He heard the sharp intake of breath from Tina, but he ignored it. “Stay here,” he quietly told her and she obeyed, halting in her steps as Newt moved further on. 

“Mr. Graves?” He asked tentatively, voice lightly echoing off the walls and causing said man’s head to shoot up. His black, matted hair fell into his face and his dark eyes widened as he observed the unfamiliar man. Seeing every muscle on the man tense, he slowed in his advances, not wishing to make the man panic. He approached the situation as if he were coming upon an injured, scared creature. “I’m here to help you. Tina, a fellow MACUSA worker, is here, too. Do you remember her?” He asked, moving so that the woman was visible over his shoulder. She offered the man a kind expression, but he went right back to Newt since he was closer, and therefore more of a threat. “I’m here to help you,” he repeated, coming to a full stop a few feet away from him. “Can I?” 

After a suffocating minute that felt like an hour, the man shakily nodded. Not any faster than before, Newt finally reached him and began muttering spells to rid the man of his restraints, and he watched as Graves gradually calmed down. Normally, this close of a proximity to any naked human being would’ve proved Newt gloriously embarrassed, but he ignored the warmth in his face for the Director’s sake, finishing the spells with one that removed the gag from his mouth. Reaching out, Graves jumped when Newt’s hand lightly caressed his cheek, but he whined and leaned into the soft touch, for he hadn’t had any positive human contact in--how long had he been down here? Time in the concrete box seemed to have been erased; he could’ve been there for a week or three months and it would’ve all felt the same. The last things he caught glimpse of before he lost consciousness were Newt’s comforting eyes and the soft, red hue of the man’s hair.

Newt sipped at the tea that was now a bit cold, cringing at the temperature as he took in what Tina told him. “Well, that’s not really surprising. What he went through was traumatising.” His own pancakes were only half-eaten, but his stomach was filled to the brim; Queenie had a penchant for making too much food. . 

“I think you should visit him.” This surprised him, and he arched an eyebrow at her. Queenie, who sat unspeaking and in her own world, was humming some Muggle song to herself as she read through a magazine she had a subscription to.

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” she answered rather awkwardly while fiddling with her fork and accidentally getting syrup on her hand, causing her to grimace and to try to rub the sticky substance off with a napkin. “You were the one to find him.”

“What makes you think he’d talk to me because of that?”

“I… I don’t know, but it couldn’t hurt to try.” He couldn’t find an argument with that and so he agreed. It looked like he’d be visiting the hospital later. 

***

Newt couldn’t remember the last time he was in a hospital, and now he remembered why he kept to staying away from them. There were so many people around him, all in various states of emotional disarray, and the place was just so… orderly and sterile that it made him feel slightly uncomfortable. A woman with massive, angry red boils on her face strode past him, and while glimpsing into a room to his right, he caught sight of a man with a large horn protruding from the centre of his forehead. Maybe orderly wasn’t the correct description. Politely excusing himself around the plenitude of nurses and doctors, he found his way to the correct area and followed the increasing numbers on the doors until he came to number 127--the room the receptionist at the front desk had told him Graves was residing in--and knocked thrice upon the wood before pushing it open.

The interior of the room was dark, for all of the curtains within it were drawn, blocking out the invading sunlight from outside. It was also completely silent, making the atmosphere within the room rather gloomy. Clutching his suitcase, which he brought with him for emotional support, he let himself look at the bed situated in the middle of the room. Graves was already looking at him and Tina’s words from that morning rang through his head; _“He’s conscious, but won’t talk to anyone; not even look.”_

“Hello… May I sit?” He asked, blushing at how awkward the words came out of his mouth and averting his eyes. He looked back long enough to see the man’s answer in the nod of his head and so, sitting in a chair beside the hospital bed, carried on looking everywhere but at the Director. Opening his mouth, he nearly asked the man how he was doing, but he squashed the idea as Graves had probably been tired of everyone asking him that same thing. Tapping his fingers against the top of his suitcase that was on his lap, he tried to find a rhythm that calmed him in any way so he could start a proper conversation.

Gazing at the man in the chair, Graves prevented any emotion in his expression, but his heart beat erratically at the presence of the man he was indebted to. His mop of red hair covered his face and his jerky movements portrayed his anxiety; the man was completely different than what he could remember when he released him from his bindings. Then, he was still gentle and timid, but he moved with a sort of purpose that set the man forward, but now that confidence seemed to have vanished, replaced with true apprehension. “Thank you.” His voice made him cringe, for it was exceptionally hoarse. The only times he used his voice in the weeks he spent contained were to scream under Grindelwald’s many Cruciatus curses; something the evil man told him he liked to do to relieve stress. He could remember and feel the grin the man had when he explained this to him. He worried for a moment that his words went unheard for they were so quiet, but the man’s head snapped up, blue eyes widened with shock at hearing him speak.

“You’re w-welcome,” Newt answered, genuine even through his stutter. Graves wanted to ask who he was, but the man shifted his gaze from him to his chest, making him look down to see what he was distracted by. Stood atop his sternum was a green, twig-like creature that stared up at him in fascination, clutching onto the blue fabric of his hospital gown. “Pickett!” Newt’s tone was reprimanding, and he stood from his chair to collect him, blushing a bit when his hands came in contact with Graves’ chest. “Right now is not the time.”

“What is that?” He asked, this time ignoring how weak he sounded. The man, who had stuffed the thing into a pocket inside his jacket, sat back down.

“One of my Bowtruckles. His name his Pickett.” The man sounded at ease at this topic, and so Graves used to this advantage and continued on it.

“One of? You have more?” 

“Oh yes. The whole of this guy’s family is in my suitcase, but Pickett has separation issues,” he started, but then he returned to his guarded facade once more, making Graves a little sad. He wanted to speak more, but his throat had dried because of the exertion and so lifted himself an inch so he could turn and grab the cup of water on the bedside table; one of the nurses watching him had put it there earlier with a smile, saying that if he needed help to just say the word “auxilium”. Newt, who had straightened up in Graves’ movements, carefully watched him to make sure he wouldn’t hurt himself. The bedridden man had to admit that these movements to just get his drink were tiring; every single muscle in his body felt sore as they moved, but he pushed forward and closed his trembling hand around the paper cup, careful in his pressure appliance so that he wouldn’t crush it.

The doctor had said that after enduring so much time under the Cruciatus curse, tremors and twitching were to be expected, but they worried that they might not cease. Graves desperately hoped they would, for now, as he struggled to maintain his grip on the cup, he felt entirely useless. How could he ever return to work if this never stopped? Slowly retreating his arm, he put his entire concentration in the control of his hand, eyes monitoring the water that sloshed dangerously close to the lip of the cup. He was successful until he started to raise his arm to bring the rim to his mouth, trembling worsening and the liquid starting to spill onto the front of him. Just this one loss of control unsettled the man deeply, and he just stared as the water continued to spill over. Before he could totally lose it, two warm hands enveloped his own, and looking up, he met his savior’s eyes where he expected to see some form of pity, but only one emotion shined through him; concern. Genuine concern. 

_This_ was the man that rescued him. “Come on,” he spoke softly, guiding the cup to his mouth and gradually lifting it so that the cool liquid spilled into his mouth, soothing his throat. When he had enough, he thrusted the empty cup into the man’s hands, too distraught by his own inability to do the simplest of things to go through the trouble again. Moving away momentarily, Newt set the cup back down before quickly returning to him. Graves didn’t realise he had begun crying until he felt the soft hands wiping away the moisture from his face. “It’s okay, Director.” The sureness in his voice made Graves break down further, clutching at the man’s wrists to keep his hands on his cheeks, because they were the only thing keeping him grounded. “You can cry.” Never in his life had someone said these words to him; his mother had passed away when he was young, leaving him with his strait-laced father who firmly believed a man should never cry, because that was a sign of weakness and there was no room for weakness within the Graves family’s only heir. But now, as he freely sobbed into this man’s chest, releasing all of the pain he had to contain not only from Grindelwald’s torture, but from his past years of life containing every ounce of trauma, he felt liberated.

When he had calmed himself down enough to pull away from the man, he finally asked who he was; who the man with shy smiles and hair the colour of fire, the man with the Bowtruckle and a mysterious suitcase, who the man who caressed him as if he were the most delicate being was.

“Newt Scamander,” the man answered with one of those shy smiles, and that’s all Graves needed to know.

Newt Scamander was his liberation.


End file.
